This is War
by TheRandomNekoPrussia
Summary: His finger laid still against the trigger, not moving an inch, as in his head a miniature war raged. He was set to shoot the country who had caused him and his people and his brother so much pain. So why couldn't he just do it...?
1. Chapter 1

Prussia laid on his stomach on top of the roof of a broken and abandoned home. His finger rested lightly on the trigger of his rifle, set on a stand just barely hanging over the edge. Below him, gun shots echoed through the streets of the empty city, men's shouts ringing through the air. Above him, as thick, cold rain fell from the fire-lit sky, and behind the black clouds of ash and smoke and storm, planes could be heard, crashing through the wind, as bombs were dropped on the ruins around him.

And yet he was still, unmoving, unblinking, the only sign that he was alive being the movement of his finger, the crack of the rifle, the dead soldiers scattered through the battle field, and the screams of soldiers yelling.

"Sniper on the roof! Move faster, German sniper on the roof!"

_Prussian sniper_, he corrected them silently. Gone was the laughing, sarcastic, egotistical Gilbert Beildschmidt, replaced by a soldier buried beneath thousands of years of abandonment hidden by an act of narcissism. The only ones who saw him this way, in his true state of mind, were his allies, those who served beneath him, and those who died at his hand.

His crimson eyes were trained carefully on the scope, through which he surveyed the frigid wreck and ruin, and the fighting that raged on every side. His men were striking back at the invaders with a strength he was proud of, but even still, they were losing.

Prussia sighed, wincing a bit each time one of his men fell, and ignoring the lingering feeling of having his people fleeing through their own countryside to escape the Soviet's attack. His free land of innocents had already been scarred and lost to the red army, and now his beautiful city, Königsberg, was falling.

And it hurt.

He reached for his radio, ignoring the snaps his tired and chilled bones made as they moved from the position they'd been in for hours. Without tearing his eyes from the scope, he quickly made the message to his brother once again.

"West, come on, you promised me reinforcements hours ago. Where are you?!" He hissed in to the receiver, swallowing the blood he tasted in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry bruder, I'll try to send troops to you when I can, but for now, you're on your own." Came the hollow, static filled reply from miles upon miles away where Germany was losing the war, and knew that there would be no reinforcements ever to come aid his brother.

"Verdammt!" Gilbert muttered to himself, dropping the radio back on to the rain slick ground beside him, and returning his attention back to the battle.

Smoke drifted between cracked buildings, making things even more difficult for him to see his targets. He was tired, and sore, and scarred beyond belief from each bomb that struck his country, and from the years of war he'd lived before this.

One by one he picked off more and more Red Soldiers, never missing his mark, and pretending not to feel the pain of a dying nation. He couldn't join in the combat below, he had his orders, and if he were to be wounded now, it as unlikely he would heal in time to lead his men and help Germany win the war. But he wished he could. He hated to not be there fighting side by side with his men.

A blast of fire exploded a hundred feet or so above his head, knocking his vision off the scope, and leaving a dull ringing noise in his ears. He closed his eyes, his mind struggled to stabilize itself. Finally he returned his gaze to the crosshairs, and nearly gasped when he saw who they nearly lined up with.

Far below him, in the shelter of a fragment of a building, giving orders to a groups of soldiers, stood Soviet Russia. Prussia faltered for a moment before slightly adjusting himself so the center point just between the blonde's eyes were lined perfectly with the "X" of his gun.

And he stayed that way. His finger laid still against the trigger, not moving an inch, as in his head a miniature war raged. He was set to shoot the country who had caused him and his people and his brother so much pain. So why couldn't he just do it...?

Prussia let out a long, slow breath, icy mist forming from where his breath touched the air. Suddenly a soldier beside Russia looked up, caching a glance of the barrel of the rifle, and quickly saying something to his commander and country.

Russia glanced up, staring directly at the Prussian. Red met violet across the battlefield, neither of them moving an inch. Ivan, as he preferred to be called, opened his arms slightly, silently daring the other to fire, to shoot him like he so desired to.

He ever so slowly lowered his hand from the rifle, and very calmly stood up. His drenched uniform clung to his body, splatters of dark red layering places where shots and stabs had yet to heal. He was in pain, and he was weak, and he could not hurt the country that caused it. He nodded silently to Ivan, who remained staring at him with a small smile, before he turned his back and began to walk to the ladder down, where he would order the retreat of his men.

He barely had time to here the echoing crack of a pistol being fired, followed swiftly by a familiar voice yelling "Nyet!"

Prussia fell, as another wave of bombs pounded down upon his city. He barely caught himself on his hands before he forced himself to roll over, and clutch the bleeding hole in his chest. It was a perfect shot, going in to his back and straight through his heart. As his vision narrowed he caught a glance of the no longer smiling face of Russia.


	2. Chapter 2

When Prussia woke up, he was lying on his side on a cot inside a dark tent that he had never seen before. His cold, bloodstained, Prussian Blue uniform was gone, replaced by bandages wrapped around his chest and new, soft pants. He felt cleaner than he'd been in three years.

There was no blanket, he noticed slowly, before he realized what was keeping him warm. It was a thick, light brown, clearly russian military coat. And he'd only seen one man, or rather, one country, ever where this coat.

Without moving, so as to not show that he was awake, he glanced around the tent. It was empty of anyone other than himself. He sighed with relief, before pulling himself up. He gasped slightly in pain as the skin around the bullet wound pulled sharply, and with great resignation, he laid back down.

He would not be moving anywhere quickly anytime soon.

Prussia, though he would never admit it, was scared. Here he was, wounded, weak, unable to get up, in the middle of a Soviet Union camp, inside of Russia's tent. He could feel that a fraction of his soldiers were still fighting somewhere, but no longer under his command, but his brother's. His city, Königsberg, had fallen. He had lost. His people had fled in to Germany or other countries, or had been murdered by the invading army. He was officially under Russia's control.

Suddenly the tent opened and Ivan walked in, beaming happily.

"You are awake now! I am very glad." He said, leaning over the wincing Prussian.

Gilbert said nothing, only glaring slightly in return to the other's smile. He may have shown the other mercy before, but now was not the time to be hospitable. No, now this was war. He should have just gone ahead and pulled the trigger. Well, Ivan can see if he won't shoot again.

The Russian took the silence as a sign that his new patient was tired. "I'll let you go back to sleep, da?" He whispered, pulling away and turning his back to look over a pile of papers on a table in the opposite corner of the tent.

The moment Ivan said that, Prussia realized just how tired he really was. Within a matter of seconds he relaxed and allowed his eyes to slowly shut, giving in to another spell of dreamless deep sleep.

When he woke again, Gilbert felt warm and comfortable, and in his still half asleep mind, he didn't notice what made him so comfortable. He felt feverish, therefore any source of heat was welcome, and who was he to cast off the arms around him, fighting back the winter air- wait...arms...around...him...

"Russia, what the hell are you doing!" He yelled, attempting to tear himself out of the other's embrace, only to fall back in pain. Red dots swam in front of his eyes as he felt himself huddle into himself.

Ivan sighed, pulling the shaking Prussian closer. "I am making sure you don't die of the cold. That would be quite a shame, lyubov." He stated calmly, seemingly unaffected by the fight the other had put up moments before. This time Gilbert gave up, steadying his breathing and swallowing down the pain. Russia noticed how skinny he was, how rather than feeling like the strong soldier he appeared to be, he was fragile and small without his uniform, and his skin was scarred, and his spirit was very soon to be broken.

"You spared me, Prussiya, so I will keep you. You will be much happier here until the war ends." He cooed quietly, not noticing Prussia's eyes still open, and the resilience that still flowed through him.

"Only when hell freezes over, Ivan."

"But haven't you noticed, it's already frozen here."

He didn't reply. In Prussia's head, he reviewed every method of escape he could think of, but at the moment, he had no chance. He was hurt. He was sick. He was simply and unconditionally done with fighting at the moment. The war was being lost before his eyes, he had known they were going to lose before it even started, but even still, he sided with his brother.

But Russia was right. This was hell.

As another attack on a small, innocent Prussian village commenced somewhere where no troops would be sent to save the townspeople from being massacred, he closed his eyes once again, and allowed the darkness to swallow him whole.

His biggest disappointment came when he woke up again and found himself still breathing. Ivan was gone again though, he noticed quickly, and slowly dragged himself off the bed. Far in the corner he saw his pile of gear, minus his gun and other assorted weapons unfortunately. However, he did find his radio, sitting on top of his pack.

With staggered, broken steps he made his way over and snatched the device off the bag, before turning it on and sending one message.

"Bruder, I've been shot and captured by Soviet Forces. Königsberg is under Russian Control. My soldiers are either dead, captured, or serving under you now. Send military aid and get me the hell out of here!" He whispered pleadingly, only now showing a hint of desperation.

"I'll try my best. We are locked in fights on both the eastern and western front, and I won't know how long it will take to come get you. If you escape before the camp moves, we'll be nearing the city by a few miles. If you make it to the forests nearing the country, you'll find our encampment." Germany replied urgently, though no emotion seemed to show in his mechanically garbled voice.

"I will be there bruder I promise. Don't leave without me." he choked back, placing the radio down and hobbling back to the cot. He was almost there when his legs gave out, and Prussia fell.

Russia, who had only just entered the tent, caught him before he hit the floor. He set the unconscious soldier back up on the makeshift bed, and wrapped his coat back around the albino's trembling body. He took the pair of handcuffs he'd been keeping latched around his belt out and carefully clipped Gilbert's left hand to the frame of the wood.

"Don't try to get up again, dorogoy." He smiled, ignoring the weak strands of german the other whispered in his dreams, promising he'd escape, swearing he'd see his brother again.

Prussia didn't even gain consciousness when Ivan shot a hole through the center of the radio, or burned the uniform the other treasured so dearly. He did however feel the pain deep in his heart as the other shredded his flag apart, piece by piece, and threw it in the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

Five horrible, cold days later, Prussia made his escape. After one hundred and twenty hours of being chained to Ivan's bed, he finally managed to pick the lock and snap his bruised, slightly bloody wrist out of the cuff. Russia had only just left, promising to be back soon, at which he'd managed to fake a weak smile in return. But now, it was time to get the hell out.

He pulled himself once again off the cot, and limped to where Ivan had left the Prussian's boots. He pulled them on quickly, tying them up tightly, before putting his captor's coat on. And then he ran.

The Russian soldiers barely had time to notice him as he shoved past all of them, sprinting across the frozen wasteland. The wound on his chest was ripping open slowly, but still, he continued running, each step pounding against snow and rubble and ash. It was already dark out, and snow was falling quickly, and far off in the distance Prussia could hear bombs falling and gun shots ringing.

His breathing was beginning to falter, his lungs screaming for air, and he promised himself that if he ever escaped he would go right back to training until he could run three times faster and farther than _this_. His limbs were now shaking with pain and exhaustion, but behind him he knew that Russia was getting closer and closer.

At every turn he slipped slightly, having to catch himself, until finally he tripped over a small knot in the ground, and fell to the icy ground. He coughed shortly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring in awe at the blood that trailed on his pale skin.

With all the strength he could muster, Gilbert shoved himself off the ground and back on to weak legs that could barely hold his weight. But then he heard the footsteps, clinking softly in the snow, walking slowly, like a wolf following a wounded animal that had no chance of escape.

Prussia turned his head to look back, and saw Ivan walking steadily after him, his lead pipe in hand, a cheerful smile on his face. He was followed by a group of soldiers, all of whom were glaring sharply. In return, he fought back the pain, and forced himself to run again.

The forest was cold and pitch dark, and trees ripped past Gilbert's red eyes as nearly as fast as the bullets and fire that he could see through the blackness and fog. He could begin to hear the echo of voices, of men marching, and that made him move even faster. He knew the Red Army was now on his heels, and there was no way in hell he was getting caught again.

Finally Prussia reached the top of the shallow hill he'd been charging up, and he faltered at what he saw. The German Army was leaving. Their tents were folded and being carried away, their supplies were in their packs, their weapons shouldered. They were marching away quickly through the woods, pretending not to notice him.

Prussia steered his gaze away from the retreating forms of the soldiers to find his precious brother. Germany was on the other end of the emptying field, his eyes as cold and cruel as steel. He mouthed a silent apology to the breaking country he had promised to save before turning away to march with his troops.

Arms caught him from behind, dragging him to his knees, pulling him up against the chest of the man he'd tried to run from, but Prussia was empty, and hollow, and barely realized that he was once again under Russia's control.

"WEST! PLEASE WEST!" He screamed, watching his brother's silhouette grow more and more distant.

"BRUDER PLEASE HEL-" His pleas were cut off as Ivan wrapped a hand over Gilbert's mouth. The Prussian struggled, pulling against the stronger body holding him down. He twisted and writhed and howled silently against the hand until the troops that were supposed to save him were gone. He collapsed back against Ivan weakly, all hope and strength lost.

"I'm sorry Prussiya." Russia whispered quietly to the man in his hold. He stared as a single tear managed to trail down the albino's cheek from pain and hate filled crimson eyes that never looked more betrayed.

At this moment, Prussia snapped just a little bit. He grinned behind Ivan's hand, his eyes gleaming with fire light that didn't exist. Russia slowly removed his arms, and turned Gilbert to face him.

The abandoned, furious, slightly hysterical ex-german soldier laughed quietly to himself before leaning forward and staring down in to Russia's cold violet eyes. Russia started to think of words to say but even he did not know what else to do other than comply as Prussia leaned in even farther and kissed his war-torn enemy.


End file.
